


The Twelve Days of Lattermas

by vifetoile



Series: Yuletide Extravaganza [3]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dialogue Heavy, F/F, F/M, Faith of the Seven, Fix-It, Fluff, Happily Ever After, Humor, Light-Hearted, Midwinter, Reunion, Romance, Silly, Winterfell, Worldbuilding, crack ship, unbetaed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:18:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22110127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vifetoile/pseuds/vifetoile
Summary: Sansa is returning to Winterfell to be Queen in the North. Arya is going to help her rule, Brienne will be the first of her Queensguard. Oh, yes, and there's a Winter festival called Lattermas that needs hosting.Romance, snowflakes, humor, lanterns, silliness, and puppies abound. Now COMPLETE!
Relationships: Arya Stark & Sansa Stark, Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Bran Stark/Daenerys Targaryen, Sansa Stark/Margaery Tyrell
Series: Yuletide Extravaganza [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1584574
Comments: 8
Kudos: 63





	1. Brienne isn't paid enough for this

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Game of Thrones, I've never even written a fic for this fandom before. This is inveterate silliness made to console me after the disappointment of season eight. Just have fun, and R&R!

Lattermas is a festival held in the early days of Winter among the great holdings of North. This is a time to light candles and gather round the hearth. It’s a passing lucky time for wooing, wedding, and bedding-- better make that long night count for something, after all. Those fond of the New Gods say that at this gloomy time, the Crone wanders among her people. She shines wisdom, guidance, and hope through the panes of her lantern, whose flame never winks out. Hence the name of this feast, the Lantern’s Mass-- Lattermas. 

  
~*~*~*

_ On the first night of Lattermas _ ,  _ the ravens gave to me, a Sugar Dragon for the Lantern Tree! _

Sansa and Arya Stark were riding North again, home to Winterfell. King’s Landing shrank behind them. 

Arya said, “I think that was the nicest wedding I’ve ever seen.” 

Sansa nodded. “Oh, yes.” 

“I mean, I haven’t been to a lot of weddings…” 

“I know.” 

“And the one I dropped in on late was, well, it was... well...”

“Daenerys made such a lovely bride,” Sansa said, deliberately trampling on that line of thought, which Arya decided was for the best. “All that white hair, and the blue silk around her collar.” 

“And she was so happy. That makes a difference, I think,” Arya said. “She certainly loves our brother.” 

Sansa’s smile was a trifle wistful. A younger, sillier Sansa would have waxed rhapsodic about her hope for her  _ own  _ wedding day, but this Sansa said merely, “I don’t remember the last time I saw  _ him  _ so happy, either. You know, I was a little doubtful at first--”

“If she wanted to marry into the Starks, it was right that we had high standards!” Arya put in.

“--she did win me over eventually,” Sansa finished with a laugh. 

“I’m still not used to having dragons for nephews,” Arya added. 

Sansa went quiet for a sec, and then said, “Shame about Jon, though.” 

“Yeah. That must really suck, to be thrown over for your own little brother. Well, cousin, technically,” Arya corrected.

“There we all were, the Lannisters had surrendered, the North was going to have its own kingdom, and I just wheeled Bran in to meet the new Queen and they locked eyes and  _ bang _ . Completely undeniable. Later on, Daenerys tried to explain-- I guess I should try calling her ‘Dany,’ since we’re family and all…”

“She’s still too terrifying for ‘Dany.’” 

“-- she said that she’d visited this place called the House of the Undying, it sounded like a crummy vacation to me. Anyway, both she and Bran can see outside of Time, and after all  _ he  _ was Ice and  _ she  _ was Fire, and she was going on and on, it’s all a little wibbly to me, to be honest.”

“And you’re the one who believes in love at first sight!” 

“Exactly! But what else can I say?” 

“To the chick with the dragons? Not a lot. But she’s got more hands-on ruling experience, and he’s got the connection to the Old Gods, and I suppose it’s worth a chance,” Arya shrugged.

“They’ve got a good Small Council to help out.” Sansa paused. “Jon really took the disappointment as well as he could.”

Arya risked a look behind them. Jon Snow, Lord Paramount of the Night’s Watch (under new management), rode gloomily on a black horse. She could all but see the black thunderheads piling up over his head. He’d been like that at the wedding, too. That’s why he was rubbish at card games.

Sansa went on, “Jon saw how it was, and he just stepped aside so the people he loved could be happy together. Now I call  _ that  _ noble.” 

“Will Bran and Daenerys be able to have kids?” Arya asked. “I wanted to ask during the reception but it seemed like a bad time.” 

“No one was really asking that question, and I think they should’ve. But everyone was in a hurry. What with Missandei, her lady-in-waiting, getting ready to marry Captain Grey and all their--”

“Captain Grey Worm.” 

“I still can’t get my head around that name. What I mean to say is, one wedding brings on another. And Bran is happy. Which considering all his Three-Eyed Raven spookiness, I’m willing to count as a victory.” 

“He’s no longer going up to people with a creepy thousand-mile-stare and cryptic utterances anymore?” Arya asked. “Are you  _ sure _ ?” 

“Eh.” Sansa made a so-so gesture with her hand. “He does that  _ less _ , but… Daenerys enables him. She uses fire for spooky lighting effects.” 

Arya smothered a laugh. “They really  _ are  _ going to live happily ever after, then. Gods help the souls of the Red Keep.” 

~*~*~*

_ On the second night of Lattermas, the Crone gifted me… cooperation in my family!  _

The caravan heading to Winterfell had stopped for lunch at a little town called Heartwick. Lady Sansa took a private dining room at the Tallow Braid. Joining her were her, sister Arya, and Ser Brienne of Tarth, who would soon be the first of the Queensguard, as soon as there was a proper Queen to guard. 

Jon Snow took his lunch outside with the men. He was still very glum. 

The dining room was cute, but very small, which is why there were only three of them present. Arya took advantage of the privacy.

“Brienne,” she started.

“ _ Ser  _ Brienne,” Sansa corrected. Arya rolled her eyes.

“It’s fine, you don’t have to stand on ceremony,” Brienne assured her.

Arya glared at her sister and started again. “I need you to talk some sense into our noble Queen in Waiting. My sister has some fool idea about me taking on a title--” 

“Not a title, a role,” Sansa corrected.

“What I would do with a title, I don’t know--” Arya went on, as if she hadn’t heard.

“Well, the new Lord of Last Hearth might have some ideas,” Sansa remarked, which shut Arya up as her ears went bright, bright pink.

(Gendry Baratheon, nee Waters, also known as Robert’s Luck and the Hunk of the Hearth, was the Lord of Last Hearth as of two weeks prior. Gendry had flatly turned down the crown of Storm’s End, but the North appealed to him. True, Last Hearth was vacant due to some peskily artistic White Walkers, but they’d been dealt with, and Gendry liked the renovation challenge.) 

While Arya protested that the Lord of Last Hearth had  _ nothing  _ to do with this, Sansa turned to Brienne and explained. “In King’s Landing, I asked Arya, very politely, if she would be my Hand of the Queen. She declined in vehement terms, but I say there’s no one better for the post.” 

“And I say, the Hand of the Ruler role has brought rotted luck to our family. I don’t want it, and I won’t take it.” 

“Would you at least think about it?” Sansa demanded. 

Brienne closed her eyes and inhaled. Clearly, although Sansa and Arya’s relationship had greatly improved, they were still sisters who had a lot to learn about each other. “It sounds like you’re at an impasse. Could you explain more to me, please?” It definitely wasn’t the battle Brienne would have chosen, but her Queen  _ had  _ requested her help.

Sansa began. “Arya loves Winterfell, loves the North and its people, as much as I do. More. She understands the smallfolk. They’ll trust her as they won’t trust me.” 

Arya huffed.

“I will be Queen, and that means I must keep at a distance,” Sansa insisted. “But Arya can be the people’s friend. Through her, I’ll know what I need to be a good Queen. And more than that, Brienne-- I’m not finished yet, Arya-- my sister has always contradicted me. She fights me. She tells me when I’m wrong. And that’s what I really need. I need someone who will stand up to me and clear my head. Someone to keep me from becoming another Cersei.” 

Brienne nodded. Arya could also in fact just kill Sansa if she  _ really  _ crossed a line, but Brienne decided to keep this to herself. Brienne meditatively chewed a bit of bread dipped in stew. Swallowed. “Those are all good things for a Queen to have. You’ve got perspective. And you value Arya’s own gifts. Now, Arya…” 

A glower from Brienne’s left. 

“Please share your thoughts.” 

“I know that you mean well, and I’m honored by your request,” Arya started. “But the way that you describe being the Hand makes me sound like a spy. I don’t want to be a spy. And if I talk to people without changing my face around, then they’ll know I’m the Queen’s  _ sister _ , and that’s my anonymity out the window. I have no patience for court policy or administration or fussy government work. And… as much as I love Winterfell, I don’t like the idea of being chained to it.” 

“These are all good points,” Brienne pointed out. “You two want the same thing. You want to put your gifts to work to make the North and happy. Right?” 

She got two grudging nods. 

Brienne saw a few complicated solutions, and one simple one, and she barreled towards the simplest one. “Give it a trial period,” she said. “Maybe one year. Maybe not even that. It’s going to take a lot of work to get Sansa installed as Queen and set everything back to rights. We’ll need all the help we can get. Arya, as a Stark, you do have duties that are rooted in Winterfell. But don’t think of Winterfell as a chain, think of it as-- well, as roots.” Duty and honor and purpose were some of Brienne’s favorite buzzwords; she hoped that they would resonate with Arya, too. “How does that sound? A year as the Hand?” 

Arya’s brows furrowed, and she nodded slowly. “I don’t want the title, and I won’t wear that pin.” 

“Alright,” said Sansa. As if it cost a great effort, she added, “After all, those are just symbols. We shouldn’t confuse symbols and their truth. You want to help.” 

“I do.”

“I could make up a  _ new  _ title--”

“Sansa!” 

“A year of Arya sticking around and helping Sansa in her own way,” Brienne interrupted, lest another squabble break out, “and after a year, we’ll confer again. Do we have an agreement?” 

She looked at Arya, then at Sansa. 

Sansa gave a firm nod. “It is well,” she said, offering her hand. 

“It’s well by me,” Arya said. She took Sansa’s hand and shook it. 

Releived, Brienne settled down to her stew and bread. The knight made a mental note to start a correspondence course with the Maesters in Oldtown. Maybe a course in social work, or psychotherapy. 


	2. Aren't you supposed to be dead?

~*~*~*

_ On the third night of Latternmas, what did the Crone provide? A septa, to kindle my mind! _

The flags and banners fluttered in the wind when Lady Sansa Stark rode into Winterfell again. Queen to be, with her Maiden’s cloak and her red hair just catching the sunlight. The sapling that had survived the forest’s burning. The Wolf restored. 

At her insistence, Arya and Jon rode at her sides, and all three were joyful when they passed into Winterfell’s main courtyard. 

The household greeted them, and a stranger stood among them.

“Who’s she?” Jon asked. 

“A  _ septa _ ,” Arya answered, her eyes narrowing. The stranger dipped into a proper curtsy. 

“I sent for her,” Sansa told them. “As a Queen, I’ll need a secretary and assistant, and it’ll do the people good to have a woman of the Faith here among them.” 

“Did you tell the smallfolk that?” Arya asked, deadpan. 

“Did you tell  _ the Old Gods  _ that?” Jon echoed. 

“Every Great House has at least one septa, anyway I wrote to Oldtown and asked for a likely candidate, and I’m very happy to see--”

That was when the septa lifted her eyes and smiled at Sansa. And Sansa nearly fell off her horse. 

“Are you alright?” Arya asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

With a herculean effort, Sansa composed herself and resisted the urge to shout. She dismounted, greeted the palace steward and rest of staff, and then turned to the new septa. 

The septa was about Sansa’s height, with her hair primly tucked under a wimple. She had light green eyes, a short, sharp nose, and a smile that was a great deal more puckish than a woman of the cloth ought to possess. “Septa Gramercy, at your service,” she said to the Queen.

Sansa Stark had gone through too much shit to doubt the evidence of her own senses. She clasped the septa’s hand in what looked like a friendly gesture, and pulled her close for a little conference. 

“Lady Margaery Tyrell, what are you doing?” 

No verbal response, but the green eyes flicked to hers. There was a fleeting protestation of innocence, and a shipping freighter’s worth of mischief behind them. 

“Do you think I don’t know who you are?” 

The woman’s smile widened, and became a bit less wicked, a bit warmer. “I always knew you were a sharp one.” 

“I heard you died at Baelor’s Sept. It was a whole  _ thing _ ,” Sansa insisted. 

Margaery shrugged. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you over dinner.” 

“Why are you here?” 

Her eyes lowered. “It’s a fraught world out there, and winter is here. I thought my best harbor would be an old friend… someone who wouldn’t mind a humble new face in her court.”

“Are you really a septa?” 

“No,” That impish smile returned in full force. “But Septa Ethelind is an old friend of mine, from House Pommington. I met her in Oldtown, and we reconnected. I came North with her.” 

Margaery gave a nod, and Sansa saw a young, plump woman in a better-fitting septa robe, standing a few paces back in the crowd. She gave the Queen-to-be a merry wave. 

Sansa smiled back. To Margaery she said, “I look forward to being her friend. I’m glad you’re here. Welcome to the North.” 

Margaery’s eyes brightened, and she kissed Sansa’s cheek. 

“That’s quite enough, septa,” said the Queen to be, but she was smiling and her cheeks were turning pinker and pinker. She let Margaery go, and stepped back to address her people.

~*~*~*

_ On the fourth night of Lattermas, the Father gave to me, an eagle upon the oak tree!  _

Of all the open, smiling faces that greeted Jon Snow on his return, there was one that he couldn’t wait to see. The one who got not only a cry of joy, but a big hug and lots of ear scritches. 

“Ghost! Ghost! Who’s a good direwolf? Is it you? Is it you? Did you get fat on giant’s milk? Did you miss me?” 

Such things did Jon say to Ghost when they met in the courtyard. Ghost was so happy, he jumped up, paws onto Jon’s shoulders, and before long the two were wrasslin’ on the cold ground. Jon remembered his dignity eventually, and got back to his feet, but even when he did one hand was always at the scruff of Ghost’s collar, giving little scritches and scratches. 

It was a good day, a good homecoming. The taste of proper, stick-to-your-ribs Northern cooking, the welcomes and thumps on the back from people who he’d barely even known before, the smiles on his sister’s faces. 

Yet for all that, when Jon went to bed that evening, he was deeply relieved. Homecoming was good, yes; Sansa’s plans for reviving the old Lattermas festival, well, that was a grand idea; but Jon was still carrying a broken heart around under his shaggy black cloak. He didn’t protest when Ghost hopped up onto the bed with him; the extra warmth was welcome. 

Jon dreamed vividly.

In the dream, he was Ghost-- or Ghost was Jon-- Jon was padding around Winterfell on four toughened white paws. It was a fun way to explore.

Winterfell was attired for all seasons. Here were garlands of hawthorn blossoms and bright ribbons to celebrate the coming of Spring-- he heard the toots and plucks of toy instruments, given to children on Smith’s Day-- the rich smell of brewing apple cider, and the Lantern Tree in the main courtyard, glowing with half a hundred candles. 

Something swooped overhead. Something big, scaly, and winged.

Hmm. Protective instincts took over. Jon-Ghost raced for the battlements. 

On the tallest tower of Winterfell, surveying the sky, stood Rhaegar Targaryen. Jon  _ knew  _ this at once, without any specific detail of recognition. This white-haired prince, who surveyed the dragons soaring throughout the broad Northern sky, was Rhaegar Targaryen. Jon’s biological father.

Jon’s hackles began to rise.

“Ah, there you are, my boy,” said Rhaegar, opening his arms to Jon. “Flesh of my flesh. Fruit of my loins. My… um… son. C’mere, give your old man a hug.” 

Jon stayed where he was. He took in the details of Rhaegar’s austere black outfit. Jon’s heart tore to see that Rhaegar did look like Daenerys-- same smile, same strong eyebrows, and of course the hair. 

“Wow, cold shoulder,” said Rhaegar. “What’s with the glare? You’re looking at me as if I killed someone.” 

“Don’t push your luck. Why are you showing up in my dream? I’m going to have to send a raven to Bran…” 

“Why am I showing up in your dream? Because I’m your  _ father _ , that’s why. Clearly, I’m here because you’re abandoning your true  _ destiny _ , and I’m here to gently nudge you on the right path. Hey, maybe we could play a game of Fetch, you know, make up for lost time?” 

A catcher’s mitt and baseball appeared in the hands of the Prince of Dragons, Diamond of the Targaryens, the Final Hope of Valyria. 

“Knock it off. You’re not going to change my mind,” Jon said. “I never wanted to be King, and King’s Landing is a real crummy town. Without Daenerys, I have no reason to stay there.” 

“No reason? You’re of my  _ bloodline _ !”

“All the more reason to stay away from Dany.” Even the casual use of the nickname sent a little stab into Jon’s heart, but he ignored it. 

“Oh--” Rhaegar waved his hand. “Dany’s a cute little tot, but she doesn’t matter in the grand scheme. You’re the Prince who was Promised, the star soloist in the Song of Ice and Fire. It’s a whole  _ thing _ . Why do you think I even  _ conceived  _ you?” 

“You conceived me by yourself?” Jon asked. 

“Well, obviously Lyanna helped, but--”

“Did you even love her?” 

Rhaegar exhaled huffily. “Of course I love her, but she didn’t get the purpose of what I was doing. She was more of a Muse, to be honest.” 

“And what did you do?” asked Jon, feeling quite piqued. Asking all these questions made Rhaegar irritated, and that delighted Jon.

“Well, I did kind of whisk her away, divorced my wifey, married Lyanna all nice and proper, and then tried to defend her when everything went tits-up. Obviously, I failed. But that--”

“You know what, you remind me a bit of my brother,” Jon said. “My brother Robb. I miss him and think about him every day. He also had a role, duties, and vows of honor. He wasn’t like you in every way-- he didn’t have a cuckoo-bananas pyromaniac father, and, by extension, he was  _ not  _ the only hope of the Seven Kingdoms remaining stable--”

“Now hold on a second--”

“Robb was a good man with a good heart. He knew his duties. But he fell in love. We are only human,” he added, “the gods have fashioned us for love. Robb followed his heart and married Talisa, who I heard was a really wonderful person. But Robb had broken off with some of his duties. Not even all of them, just his oath to the Freys. Robb’s perfectly good intent and perfectly good heart ended up costing him his life, his family’s life, the lives of all of his soldiers, the freedom of the North, all of that. But that’s  _ still  _ less than the bloodshed that resulted from  _ your  _ big, well-intended extramarital plan.” 

Rhaegar’s mouth clammed shut. His strong brows lowered. If he weren’t a Prince of the Blood of Old Valyria, Jon would’ve said that he was pouting. 

“Now listen here, son--” 

“I’m not your son,” said Jon, “and I’m not listening any more today. I’m not going to validate your mistakes.”

“Of course you’re my son!” 

Jon marveled at Rhaegar’s selective deafness. “You donated some sperm to make me, but you’re not my father. My father was a man of honor, name of Eddard Stark.” 

A blink. “That doesn’t make any sense!” 

Jon shrugged, and turned his back on Rhaegar. He descended the stairs, paying no attention to the bluster and shouting going on behind him. 

Through Winterfell. Now snow was falling, muffling his steps. Jon entered the godswood, and when he did he was neither a wolf nor a man but a small boy, and the world loomed all around him. He made for the weirwood tree. 

A woman was sitting before the weirwood, where Ned Stark used to sit. She was a very pretty lady, who looked a bit like Arya. Deep blue skirts bloomed around her like rose petals, and she laughed at how direwolf puppies clambered and played around her. 

Then she saw Jon. Her smile turned even brighter. She opened her arms and said, “You look all a mess! Come here.” 

Jon rushed into Lyanna Stark’s arms. She kissed his forehead and bundled him into her lap. He had no memory of a hug or a kiss or a smile like this. The lucid part of his mind knew this was not likely to come again, just as the age of seven is not likely to come again, so he enjoyed it with all his might. 

“Mum,” Jon said, with his head on her shoulder, “I’m sorry for causing you so much trouble.” 

“Don’t worry a bit, dear. It wasn’t your fault.” 

“I’m sorry for what happened to you.” 

Lyanna hummed a little and kissed the top of his head. “You’re sweet. Now listen. You’ll wake up soon. I want you to have a good breakfast, and play with Ghost, and then go and do good work. Winterfell needs you.” 

“Mum?”

“Yes, dear heart?”

“Dad—I mean, Ned loved you so much. He loved you so much he tarnished his honor. He hurt his marriage. He lied to Robert, his best friend, his king.”

“I know.”

“I can’t believe it. He was a man of honor.”

“You’re living proof. And he loved you just as much.”

“I’ve gotta think about this…”

“Then do that. Think, do, help, love…” a little sadness entered her voice, and she hugged him tighter. “Live, live, live. I love you lots, boyo.”

“I love you too,” was on Jon’s lips as he woke up, in the dim predawn. A faint memory of a kiss stirred his hair.

This called for a raven to Bran, this called for a visit to the weirwood tree and the crypt. But Jon took some time to just cherish the memory, with Ghost stirring beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that got unexpectedly profound. I'll try not to let it happen again.


	3. Meanwhile, back at the ranch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this crackfic? I don't know. My only guiding question is, "Do I like this better than what D&D came up with?" It's a good guide.
> 
> I may have gotten all profound again, but hopefully it's also fun.

_ On the fifth night of Lattermas, the Crone gifted me… five glowing candles!  _

The Crown of Winter rested on the head of a Queen. Sansa Stark arose, Queen of Winterfell, and her eyes were steady as she looked on her people. Her grey gown was worked with glinting red leaves, and fishes’ scales, and patterns like the deep roots of black trees, trees that survive Winter ( _ deep roots are not touched by the frost… _ ) 

The Queen, the Princess, and the Queensguard proceeded onto the balcony, where the smallfolk of the North cheered for their Queen. They were half-ready to love her already. Maybe they knew her for one of their own; maybe they knew that she bore them love already, enough to make a good start. 

The cheers and the snowfall caught on something in Sansa’s heart. Her heart was too full. She wiped at a tear-- then Arya set a hand on her shoulder. The Queen and her sister met eyes, and smiled.

_ Moments like this paid for it all _ . 

That was when Sansa glanced up and saw a raven on the upper ramparts. Just a moment too long, she watched it-- as if she knew. Then she smiled again. Such joy. She lifted her hand to wave--

“Bran, Bran dear, wake up.” 

Only one voice could draw him away from such a scene. Brandon Stark drew away from the ramparts, and let the raven fly where it would. He returned to his body with the speed of a wave. His eyes fluttered open. Daenerys was bent over him, her fingers rustling through his hair. 

“We’re here,” she said. 

“I’m here,” he echoed. 

“Where were you?” she asked. The hand on his forehead moved to grip his hands, and she pulled him so he was sitting up against their berth. 

“Sansa’s coronation. I saw what I needed to.” His eyes cleared. “They’re happy.” 

Dany nodded, and called for Bran’s body-servant, Turnbull. Turnbull, a onetime blacksmith, helped carry Bran above, to the open deck of their ship, the  _ Crowned Dolphin _ . The ship had dropped anchor in the port of Dragonstone. North of them towered the stone behemoth. On all other sides lay the sea.

The sea. Daenerys stared at it with the eyes of a much older woman, a woman denied revenge, denied closure. Missandei stood beside her, giving her hand for a tight grip. This sea had destroyed the entire Targaryen armada, the same night as Dany’s birth. As the greatest barrier of her exile, it had haunted her dreams all her life. And it had swallowed her second dragon-child, Rhaegal. Small wonder she was giving the sea a death glare. 

For anything less than that, Bran may have argued against traveling by sea in the second real assault of winter. Or, if the loss were any less dire, he might have let Dany face it without him. But they’d had word from Dragonstone. Something had washed ashore. And Dany  _ had  _ to go. And Bran was still figuring out all this stuff about love and husband and… husbandry… but he knew he couldn’t let her do this alone.

It was crowded, on the rowboat to the docks. Missandei and Grey Worm were side by side, holding hands as usual. There was Turnbull lending a hand rowing. Bran and Dany faced one another. It was hardly private, but he was a King and she was a Queen-- privacy was scarce for them these days. 

She leaned forward and spoke to him, in a voice that barely carried over the noise of the water. “Did I tell you that I had a son?” 

“Yes,” Bran said. “I remember. And he died. I’m sorry.” 

“Did I tell you his name?” 

“No,” he replied softly. He took her hand. 

“I was going to name him Rhaego,” said Daenerys. Her purple eyes were fixed on her boots, all of well-worn leather, built for running. “Rhaego, after my brother who was to be king. My husband liked the name, too. I still see my baby in my dreams. What I hoped for…”

“I’m so sorry,” Bran said. 

“Perhaps I ran the name too ragged. How many ‘Rhaegar’ namesakes can one girl have? But for my dragons, Viserion and Rhaegal just went together. Like honey and cheese. My family--” she took a deep, shuddering breath, and pressed his hand to her forehead. A few tears trickled down while Bran murmured what comfort he could.

By the time they reached the docks, she’d regained her composure. And then it was a whole new process, to set up Bran’s wheelchair and get him rolling on the flagstones of the island. Dany pushed his chair herself, though she was still getting the hang of low steps and doorways. 

_ On the sixth night of Lattermas, the Crone gave to me, a quill to write my history!  _

Rhaegal’s bones had washed up on a quiet inlet on the western side of the island. The sea thundered a hundred feet off at low tide. Their local guide said that the dragon’s bones must have been washed up in the last big storm-- it was surprisingly far inland.

It was a little scary, how fast the sea had eaten away dragon-flesh. 

When they came upon the inlet, Bran sent away all the attendants except for Turnbull, Missandei, and Grey Worm. Daenerys cried just to see, and Bran cried, too, at seeing the woman he’d come to love so fast, so dearly, in such pain. Dany was repeating some phrase, at such a fast mumble that no one could understand her, and it was Grey Worm who halted the moment by asking what she was saying? 

Dany swallowed, and said, “If I look back, I am lost. If I look back, I am lost. That’s been my mantra for so long. It was the only thing I could cling to.” 

“Really?” Bran blinked up at her. “Dear, looking back is all that  _ I  _ ever do. What does that say about us?” 

It was a stupid question. So stupid that Dany smiled despite herself. A weak giggle turned into a chuckle, then a laugh as she said, “We really are an ill-matched couple. Except for the eyebrows.” 

Even Grey Worm laughed at that. Dany wiped a tear, then kissed Bran on both of his very strong eyebrows (that’s the key, they both had surprisingly fierce eyebrows), and then descended the rocks to inspect the bones better. She asked Grey Worm to follow.

“Captain,” she said to him, “What do you know about making weapons from bone?” 

Grey Worm’s eyebrows went up, but he replied evenly, “I know more about  _ maintaining  _ bone daggers or hilts, but there’s a half-dozen Unsullied who know the art well. The Dothraki have their own art. Why?” 

“Rhaegal was dear to me, but he’s gone. Clearly, he doesn’t need these bones anymore. Past kings of my line used dragon bones as trophies. I wonder. Maybe…” she looked over the metacarpals and ulna of a huge wing, and a shudder came over her. “... these bones aren’t doing him any good. We might put them to use to help those who are alive. They might be used to craft weapons for warriors such as yourself.” 

“Me?” 

“Yes, Captain.” She straightened her shoulders and met his eye. “You’ve won great honor in my service. What can I possibly give you in return?” 

“You’ve given me a future with a wife I love,” he said. “That’s a lot.” 

She nodded in acknowledgement. “Maybe I should sleep on the idea-- what’s that?” 

She pointed. Grey Worm bent to see-- it was Rhaegal’s ribcage, half-submerged in sand and soil. But that wasn’t what she’d meant. There was a plant growing in the ribs’ shadow. A pale sapling with red leaves. 

“Could it be--” Grey Worm whispered. 

“Quickly, bring Bran here,” said Daenerys. She knelt to get a better look. She was still staring at the plant when Turnbull carried Bran over, piggyback style. Grey Worm helped Bran to get the best possible look at the sapling. 

“Could it have been a seed from the ocean? Or is this something…” Dany might have said  _ unnatural _ , might have said  _ uncanny  _ or even  _ magical _ . But Bran was certain...

“It’s a little weirwood tree. I can’t believe it.” He reached out automatically to touch the plant, then thought better of it and drew back his hand. “It will have roots that remember flying, and leaves that remember their mother’s voice. The trees of Winter, born from the hearts of dragons.” 

“What a paradox,” said Missandei. She sounded delighted. 

“But, of course,” Bran added. “Ash makes very fertile soil.” 

Dany muttered something into her hand. This time she saw everyone’s eyes flit to her, and she explained, “‘Dragons don’t plant trees.’ That’s what my brother Viserys used to say. I guess he was wrong about that. He was wrong about  _ everything _ .” She was crying again, but smiling, and when she stood, she stood like a Queen. “We’ll plant a godswood around here. Rhaegal will never be forgotten while the trees stand. We have so much to learn about the ways of this world.” 

It was a good moment. Would that it could have lasted longer. But rainclouds threatened on the horizon, and Daenerys was eager to get Bran into the safety of the castle, and preferably the warmth of a Queenly bed. Her spirits had lifted considerably, and she was suddenly glad to be alive. Very glad.

As she turned him to face Dragonstone, Bran was suddenly knocked out of time- and- space- as-we-generally-know-it. He saw a woman standing ahead of his wheelchair, facing him-- well, now it was a little girl, impatient and grinning, now it was a slightly stern maiden whose collar was trimmed in wolf fur. She looked so much like Sansa Stark-- like  _ Catelyn  _ Stark-- except that her hair wasn’t auburn, it was a red-gold so pale that in the sunlight it looked almost white. Her hair was down, tressed with blue and violet ribbons that highlighted the color of her eyes. And she had-- gasp-- very strong eyebrows. 

The vision left. Bran turned to get a glimpse of Daenerys. She saw him smiling at her. 

“What?” she asked.

“I’ll tell you when we get home,” he promised her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Stay tuned!


	4. The snow plays with acoustics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this cheers you guys up-- we all could use it. Hope you like it! R&R always appreciated

The day came when Jon Snow and Ghost, his direwolf, were to leave Winterfell. Tormund Giantsbane was to accompany them North of the Wall, where Jon Snow would live among the Wildlings as an emissary of Winterfell and as a general helpmeet. Early in the morning, Queen Sansa, Ser Brienne, and Lady Arya arose to see them off. 

Arya kept blinking and wiping at her eyes. Sansa couldn’t look at her, lest Arya’s suppressed tears set _her_ off. At some point, Arya knelt down and devoted a lot of scritches and kind words to Ghost, who accepted them as his due.

You could see the moment when Sansa switched into “Queen” mode. The wolf pelt on her shoulders highlighted her movement, setting back her shoulders and straightening into a regal pose. A wrapped package that she held shook slightly. 

She thanked Tormund graciously, wished him good fortune, and said he would be welcome at her hearth and table, should ever he wish to visit.

Then she turned to Jon Snow. She held out the package in her hands. “I made lemon cookies for you,” she said in a rush. “They’ll keep for a good while, and they’ll be best with a hot drink. There’s two packages-- one is for you, the other is for your hosts. Whatever hearth or, or camp that you join, you can give a host-gift and maybe it’ll help you make friends. Be careful, they might break.” Stiffly she held them out.  
Jon took the wrapped cookies with as much care as if they were dragon eggs or sleeping pups. “Thank you,” he said. Then he looked up at her and said, “You know, you’ll make a great mum one day.” 

That did it. Sansa’s resolve cracked. With a sob she hugged Jon tight. “Anytime you meet a raven, I want to get a letter home.” 

“Done.” 

“When Spring comes back, you’ll come back. Even just for a visit.” 

“I promise.” 

A final squeeze. He broke from her and turned to Arya. First she took his hand, then she hugged him. 

“Come visit me up North. You’ll like it up there,” he said. 

“I’ll find you,” she replied, “and tie you up and drag your ass back to Winterfell.” 

“I’ll look forward to it.”

“Stay safe.” 

“I love you.” 

“I love you too, brother.” 

When Jon broke from Arya there was a moment of taut, painful silence. Then Tormund strode up to Ser Brienne and took her hand. 

“Ser Brienne, it’s my last offer. Want to come North with me, and slaughter giants, and snuggle under reindeer hide?” 

Brienne inclined her head. “Thank you, but no. My place is here.” 

Tormund nodded. Reddish spikes of hair bobbed up and down with the motion. “Well said. I remember when what’s-his-name knighted you properly in that there cellar. That was an honor that you’ve earned seven times over. I’m proud to have witnessed it.” 

That made the knight smile. “It was my honor to have you there as witness.”

Tormund Giantsbane gave a gruff assent. He almost mounted his horse, and then turned back and added, “But all that said, _if_ you decide you’ve had enough of this life, all these pesky stone walls and sworn vows, I’ll be waitin’ for you in the Great Wild North. All you have to do is cross the Wall and follow your nose. My virile musk will lead you true.” 

That gallant speech given, he winked and hopped onto his horse.

It was like a spell was broken. The Stark family couldn’t cry when they were trying hard not to burst out laughing. Ghost began to run in circles-- he was eager to be off. Jon had more hugs foisted on him. Arya reminded him to wear socks, Sansa readjusted the fit of his gauntlet. Jon Snow mounted his horse, whistled to Ghost, and gave one last smile to his sisters. With a wave, Jon, Tormund, and Ghost were out of Winterfell’s gates. Sansa and Arya leaned on one another, arm-in-arm.

“Are you alright?” Ser Brienne asked, as the snow swallowed up the noise of hoofbeats.

“We will be,” Sansa replied.

“How about some breakfast?” Ser Brienne asked. 

“Sounds good,” Arya said. But no one moved just yet; they watched the horses until they rounded a bend, and were out of sight. Then the women of Winterfell went to breakfast.

~-~-~

Arya had braced herself to dislike Septa Ethelind, as she’d disliked Septa Mordane, with her tidy homilies and her disapproving glares. But Ethelind, the new Septa of Winterfell, was cut of a different cloth. She was young, for one thing, with a plain and cheerful face. She was only as pious as her job required. She led prayers in chapel (with the Queen’s permission), but finished prayers briskly and shooed the congregation to work. 

And Septa Ethelind worked as hard as the rest of them. _That_ really got her in Arya’s good graces. Septa Ethelind had been born among the rich orchards and bustling kitchens of the Reach. What she didn’t know about tending orchard trees, or storing, preparing, cooking, or preserving food of any kind, was not worth knowing. 

Septa Ethelind’s knowledge was of such value, in these early Winter days, that it needed to be shared and spread. So Queen Sansa sent Ethelind to Last Hearth, to oversee and advise their cellarers. And because Ethelind was a stranger in the North, she needed a companion. Which is how Arya found herself going with her to Last Hearth. 

Arya had volunteered for this gig, believe it or not-- she was getting fed up with Sansa and Margaery and their do-si-do’s of whispers and giggles and blushes and notes. If they wanted to make out, they should just do it and end Arya’s perpetual third-wheel-agony.

So, Arya and Ethelind rode out in the morning. They rode shaggy, chestnut-colored ponies. There were still a few snowflakes drifting down, but a glimpse of blue on the horizon promised some sunshine later. Septa Ethelind was mending socks in the saddle, while Arya took in the scenery.

“Last Hearth,” Septa Ethelind said, to open conversation. “I hear it’s lovely. But I thought that everyone there died?” 

“Oh, yeah,” Arya agreed. “They died horribly. White Walkers made a modern art display of their corpses. They’re dead if lucky.”

“Oh.” Ethelind lapsed into silence, long enough for Arya to wonder if she’d been tactless, then she said, “But the Queen told me that there is a _new_ Lord of Last Hearth, and you know him.” 

“That’s right.” 

“Could you catch me up, please? I hate to be out of the loop.” 

Arya nodded. “It did happen really fast. Okay. The new lord was born in King’s Landing, and his name was Gendry. A commoner, a bastard child of the late King, Robert Baratheon. I heard they really look alike.” 

“You don’t say? Why isn’t he in Storm’s End?” 

“I’ll get to that. He went twenty years without even knowing he had aught to do with Robert Baratheon. But after Robert’s death—“

“Seven rest his soul—“

“As you say—Gendry heard that it was bad luck afoot in King’s Landing, so he hightailed it on the caravan going North, to the Night’s Watch. That’s where I met him.” 

“What were you doing there?” 

“Long story. We became friends. Made it to Harrenhal. Had some spooky run-ins. Said some soul-baring things. Gendry thought he’d kick around with the Brotherhood Without Banners. I went my way, he went his. That’s when he found out he was the King’s last living child, and it turned out that was _also_ terrible luck.”

“No way.”

“Yeah. There was a hot lady dressed all in red, who went on about how there’s power in a king’s blood, and Gendry was basically a prisoner in the camp of Stannis Baratheon, remember him?”

“Heard tell. Never met him.”

“Then Davos Seaworth—he’s in King’s Landing now, a pretty good fella—he thought Gendry was being ill-used, so Davos helped smuggle him out with a boat. I mean, Gendry was _in_ a boat.” 

“Where to?”

“He didn’t know. Just a wee rowboat.”

“That sounds grotesquely optimistic.”

“It paid off. Gendry found his way back to the mainland from Dragonstone.”

“ _How_?”

“I don’t know, I wasn’t there. I guess he’s really good at rowing. Anyway. He got tangled up in the kings and lords down South, and because there were no proper Baratheons left, he was offered Storm’s End, but Gendry turned it down. He said that to go from a blacksmith to a Lord of a Great House would just turn his head. But he’d liked the North, and as Last Hearth was recently vacated, my sister offered him the post of Lord there, which he said was just about big enough for him to handle, and so he’s set up there, but out of respect to the late Umbers, he’s taken the name Smith. Lord Smith, at Last Hearth.”

“Smith? Was he trying to be inconspicuous, or…?” 

“No, no, he was a smith in King’s Landing to start with.” 

“ _Ooooh_.” Septa Ethelind considered. “So he’s good with his hands.” 

“I assume so.” 

“And a buddy of yours.”

“Yes. A buddy.”

“So, Lady Arya, him living in the North, as a lord, that has nothing to do with you.” 

“He liked the North. What was I going to do, veto him?” 

“Is that all there is between you?” 

“Of course it is.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes. We traveled together awhile and squabbled a bit. Maybe we shared intimate confessions or whatever, but that was seasons and seasons ago. I barely know the guy.” 

“But now you’re practically neighbors.” 

“Neighbors! Please! I’m a princess of Winterfell now, and he’s all the way over at Last Hunk, I’d hardly call that neighbors.” 

“Over at Last _what_ now?”

“Last Hearth? Septa, are you losing your hearing?” 

“You said Last Hunk.” 

“What? No, I didn’t.” 

“You absolutely did.” 

“The snow plays with acoustics.” 

“It sure doesn’t, now I’m just wondering, is that like Last Hunk _of cheese_ , or like, Last Hunk of Virile Manhood…” 

“ _Septa_!” 

“What?” 

“‘Virile Manhood’? You’re not supposed to even _know_ words like… like that.” 

Septa Ethelind’s laugh echoed over the snowfields. “I’m in training for a midwife, _and_ I’ve sat vigil for a dozen corpses. I should _hope_ my vocabulary is adequate. Now, this Gendry guy, have you and he snogged, or--?” 

Arya vehemently changed the subject.

They reached Last Hearth (“Nice views, I like the spiraling paths up the hill, don’t you, Arya?” “It’s fine”) and in the flurry of activity, they were waved through to the main courtyard, but not announced properly. They dismounted their horses and were directed to see the Lord in the barrack courtyard. They passed through a kitchen corridor, which smelled strongly of simmering apple and pear, being cooked down into jellies. In the fresh courtyard air, a heart-stopping (or heart-throbbing) sight met their eyes.

Gendry Smith, Lord of Last Hearth, and his friend Bob were having a sparring match in the snow. It was friendly, but heated—so heated, in fact, that neither lord could endure wearing a shirt, even in the brisk air. Their breaths and laughter emerged in puffs of white vapor. Now they were at it again.

“Should we tell them we’re—“ Ethelind started, but Arya cut her off with a “Shh.”

She promptly shh’d. And they both watched silently as the two men fenced… shoulders flexing, chests rising and falling, glistening with sweat, glimmering with muscular joy: the joy of being alive when Winter wants to kill you. And the trousers were just the right amount of snug, too. It was a shame, really, when Gendry, in an easeful moment, stretched his arms over his head (which did fascinating things to his shoulderblades) and executed a half-spin on his toes, and happened to realize that Lady Arya and Septa Ethelind were in the courtyard with them. His yelp of surprise almost made up for the disappointment.

“Lady Stark! I welcome you to Last Hearth. I’m sorry I did not greet you in a fitting manner.”

“I’m just as happy you didn’t,” Arya replied, mild as you please.

“Bob,” said Gendry, “this is the Lady Stark, whose fencing puts both of our best efforts to shame. She’s the one that slew Winter himself.”

“No way!” Bob stared at Arya in newfound respect.

Arya looked a little embarrassed. “I did the best I could. My brother helped,” she told him. “Honestly, we probably could have come up with a way better plan, I’m still kind of stunned.”

“This is Bob, by the way, he’s a friend of mine.” The ladies said hello to Bob. “Now, Bob, could you please go and get me a shirt?”

“Right away, Gendry—‘scuse me, ladies.” Bob exited stage right. That left only Septa Ethelind to observe the sparks flying, the eyes lowered, the surreptitious glances.

“You look well,” said Arya. “Seems that the North agrees with you.”

“I could say the same. You’re in your element.” His smile was warm. “And your hair is, uh, it’s different.”

“Yes,” Arya put a gloved hand up to her coiffure, half unthinking. “Yes, I was inspired by the Braavosi knots. I mean, I traveled around so many places. Even now that I’m home, I want to carry my journeys with me.” 

“It looks good. You look good.”

Inhale. Eyes lowered. Gendry was looking at her, just a moment, like she was a coded map to a country of wonders, then he too looked away, just as she glanced at _him,_ and Seven only knows how long that might have gone on except that Septa Ethelind cleared her throat.

“Right! Oh gods above. Gendry Smith, I have the honor of presenting to you Septa Ethelind. She hasn’t been with us in Winterfell long, but she’s earned our trust.”

“Lord Smith.” Septa Ethelind curtsied.

“You are welcome to Last Hearth. Although we’re fairly disorganized here, you and Lady Stark are welcome guests for as long as you choose to stay.”

“Gendry…” this was almost a groan from the Lady Stark. “How many times must I ask you to call me _Arya_?”

A very deep bow. “One more time, Lady Stark. As always.”

“You are impossible,” she told him. At that moment, Bob reentered the courtyard, carrying a linen shirt for Gendry and a quilted jacket in the autumnal colors of House Smith.

It was indeed a sunny afternoon. But as the sun set, the winds picked up from the northeast at fifty mph, and ominous clouds rolled in. A blizzard with a keen sense of romantic timing moved onto the keeps of the North. And Arya and Ethelind were snowbound at Last Hearth that night. 


	5. The best of good dogs returns

Meanwhile, back at the ranch…

For three days and nights the blizzard pressed and danced over the North. In the deep darkness of its second night, Sansa saw how pale Margaery was, and how she shivered. Without Septa Ethelind to help warm her bunk—well, the Queen saw a simple fix. She drew Margaery up to her own room, and wrapped her in her own furs, and there they sat, leaning in, on Sansa’s bed, while a merry fire roared in the hearth.

Sansa kept a reserve about her. Some hopes were too fragile to risk.

Then again, Sansa was not a little bird with fragile bones. A wolf must have courage. She reached out and clasped Margaery’s fingers. “Look at me,” she said.

“Yes, my Queen,” said Margaery. Her green eyes were calm and welcoming, no matter how long Sansa looked into them.

Finally Sansa lowered her eyes. “I will not make you stay if you don’t wish to.” She took a deep breath. “If you wish to make a new home elsewhere, I will give you any help you need. You won’t be a prisoner.”

“Why wouldn’t I stay?” Margaery asked.

“It’s so cold here. You’re not used to it. It’s dull; we have none of the songs and tourneys of the South.”

“This is your home.”

“Yes, and it’s all familiar to me. I’m stronger here than I am anywhere else. And you are more than welcome. I can share this with you. I can open all of my home to you. But you’re a Southron girl.”

Margaery pushed a ruddy lock off of the Queen’s forehead. She traced the length of it to the hollow of Sansa’s neck, where firelight kissed it. “Do you know that there are roses that need a frost in order to bloom?” Her eyes met Sansa’s.

“I didn’t know that.”

“If you let me,” Margaery went on, “I’ll happily put my roots down here. I’ll bundle up, I’ll become a blustering babushka of the North—“ Sansa couldn’t resist a laugh at that, and Margaery grinned. “For you, I’ll stay. If only you’ll have me.”

Sansa breathed her name, barely believing.

Margaery slipped from her shoulder, to arm’s length. She took Sansa’s hand and kissed the back of it—then the knuckles—then the fingertips. “I’ve never known a one like you, Sansa. The strength of a queen, the soul of a poet, the heart of a lover. Let me stay with you.”

Sansa could barely say “Yes” before she drew Margaery to her and returned her kisses, first to forehead, then cheek, then lips, as natural as buds pushing through snow. Sansa and Margaery kissed again and again, each time a bit deeper, now playful, now intense.

Later, Sansa reflected on what Margaery had said. A rose that needed frost to bloom. Perhaps such was she. All her suffering, which lived still in nightmares— and her heart could still risk loving, trusting, caring, _wanting_. She entwined herself closer with Margaery’s dozing form under the sheets. Spring was blooming in her heart. She could barely wait for what it would bring.

~-~-~

“I see them! I see them, your Majesty!”

Catrinna on the ramparts gave that cry. She was a lass of thirteen, and she was one of the first students studying fighting and soldiering under Brienne. Guard duty was part of the curriculum, and a terribly boring task it was, unless you happened to be facing towards Last Hearth at exactly the right time to see a party riding towards Winterfell. There hadn’t been word of Lady Arya or Septa Ethelind, and the Queen was terribly worried—but now Catrinna took another, careful look, and she was certain. There was Lady Arya, unmistakable, and Septa Ethelind, beside her. And there was a weird-looking horse loping ahead of them, but—oh well. Catrinna was a bit nearsighted, so she didn’t worry about it more than that.

Queen Sansa reached the ramparts, took a good look, and assessed the situation.

“The Lord of Last Hearth is accompanying them,” she told her attendants. “It’s likely he will want to return to his seat tonight, so tell the kitchens to fix something hot but quick for lunch. Have a smith ready to re-shoe his horse if necessary—and in case he _does_ wish to stay the night, make sure there’s a fire going in one of the guest chambers. Stand by for more orders. I’ll meet them in the courtyard.”

The people of Winter Town began to gather and stare at the procession. The passage of Lady Arya was not of such note, but it was the one who loped on ahead of her. This was the cause of Septa Ethelind’s anxiety; even Lord Gendry looked worried, though he concealed it better. Lady Arya, though, had dismounted, and now she walked with a positively beatific expression. She walked alongside Nymeria, her lost-and-found direwolf.

Nymeria had come to Last Hearth in the blizzard. Nothing less than the full force of Winter would serve for her honor guard. Arya had woken from a dream of driving snow, and open fields, and she had realized in a gasp that the high, sad crying was not the wind—it _wasn’t_ the wind!

She didn’t remember dressing in five layers; she barely remembered running through the darkened courtyards of Last Hearth. She crossed to outside the walls, because, of _course_ her wolf would meet her outside of the walls. And there she was, Nymeria, bounding to Arya and sniffing her all over to make sure she was all right. Nymeria was here, warm, alive, and _free_. The wolf bellowed with a deep primal joy: the pack was complete again. As for Arya, her happiness was too great to contain. She howled.

The Starks walked free, and Winterfell was safe, and so Nymeria had come back. Her girl needed her. Arya didn’t need to know any more whys or wherefores than that. Sure, she must have looked like a madwoman to the people of Last Hearth, but so what?

There was only one opinion that she even half-courted, for that matter…

“I don’t know when I’ve seen you so happy,” Gendry observed. He had just dismounted and walked alongside her. (Septa Ethelind, much to her own vexation, was handling the reins of both their horses as well as her own. Not that anyone had asked her. Next time these quarreling lovebirds could go on foot.)

“Nymeria and I go way back,” was Arya’s explanation to Gendry. “A lot longer than me and you.”

“You do know how to put a man in his place, don’t you?” Gendry asked.

“It’s a skill that’s come in handy,” was the reply. She glanced at him, and this time he didn’t bother hiding the admiration in his eyes. Arya considered, then spoke.

“Gendry.”

“My lady,” he replied.

“There’s a lot for me to do at Winterfell. Sansa needs me to keep her head level.”

“I’m a patient man.”

“Besides, I’m not one for stone walls and heavy cloaks. A wolf needs a good pack around it, but no chains and no walls.” She met his gaze. “Can you accept a wolf that’ll never be tame?”

“Who says I want you tame? You’re wild and wonderful, my lady Stark.”

“ _Gendry_. For the last time—“

“Tell me again later.” His hand caught hers, and in a swift movement he kissed her hand and lowered it again. “Leave me my little courtesies.” In a more serious tone, he added, “We have time, Arya.”

“Time. That’s true,” Arya agreed. “Let’s say we’ll suss out a proper arrangement. Whether it includes a maiden’s cloak or a septon’s blessing, we’ll find out when we get there.”

“You’ll always have a place at my hearth,” Gendry promised her.

“I’ll take advantage of it.” Now she kissed his hand, with all the haughty grace of a born knight. She let his hand go. “I’ll have to explain this direwolf to the Queen.”

Gendry’s confident smile—with just a hint of mischief in his dimple—stayed with Arya as she curtsied to her sister, and formally presented Nymeria to the Queen and all the court of Winterfell. Arya did keep an eye on Margaery—if she balked at the sight of a full-grown direwolf, she had very little business being in Winterfell’s court, princess or no. But Margaery didn’t look scared. Instead her eyes lit up with curiosity, banked by caution. And Septa Ethelind, once she was back on the ground, looked no worse for the wear either. Brienne of Tarth looked outright delighted by the new canine friend.

Very well, then, thought Arya, laying a hand on Nymeria’s shoulder. They can stay.

~-~-~

Nymeria remembered the halls of Winterfell well, even though she’d been just a pup the last time she’d crossed them. She dozed comfortably in the solar while Sansa and Arya sat down for a good tete-a-tete.

“It does me good just to see her,” Sansa said, watching the great wolf. “You and her, together, safe, and here. She’s grown up so well.”

Arya noticed, but didn’t comment on, the sad, longing note in Sansa’s voice. “I dreamed about her a lot. And I’d dream of all the others, too, especially Summer for some reason.”

“Now here she is, as large as life.” Sansa smiled. She almost turned back to her embroidery hoop, then saw Arya’s thoughtful expression. “What is it?”

“I think… now I’m not a veterinarian, but I think Nymeria is actually _larger_ than life.”

“What’s that?”

“I think she’s come to me not just because I’m her girl. I think she wants a good, safe den. A place to whelp a litter.”

“You think Nymeria is expecting?”

“Yep. Somewhere there’s at least one other direwolf, and she found him and got to work.”

Sansa looked from the wolf to Arya again. “You’re no veterinarian.”

“I said. But this is my wolf. _You_ know the six of us had a peculiar bond with our animals. Call it a gut feeling. And we can call a proper vet to give her a look over.”

“He’ll be a brave veterinarian,” Sansa observed. “We should do that anyway, make sure Nymeria’s healthy as can be. And I’ve already started a letter to Bran. He’ll be so excited to hear.”

“He might already know.”

“True—if you could add a postscript, I think he’d love that.”

“I’d be delighted to. You know, Sansa? I do think Nymeria is expecting. I think she may whelp two puppies. One will be a he-wolf, who’ll be grown and rambling about by the time Bran makes it up here to meet him. And then the pup will be strong enough to travel back to King’s Landing with him. Summer always _does_ come back.”

“Did you get into the punch bowl at dinner?”

“One last thing and then I’ll be good and sensible. I think the other pup will be a little she-wolf. I know no other creature could replace Lady.” Her voice cracked. She looked down. “I know how you grieved her. And to this day, I’m so sorry.”

Sansa didn’t trust her voice, but she reached out and took Arya’s hand. That gave Arya the strength to finish, “No replacement, but recompense. A new start. A new little friend. A Queen does need a direwolf of her own.”

“A Queen does not tempt fate,” Sansa replied. “We’ll let the future be. See what Winter brings to us—but I would welcome a new friend.” 

“It’s Lattermas, Sansa. Don’t be so practical!” Arya teased. “Wish for something grand!”

“I have Winterfell and our people, I have Ser Brienne, I have Margaery—don’t wag your eyebrows at me! We’re going to talk about Gendry—“

“Is that _so_?”

“Let me finish first—Nymeria’s come back to you, and I have _you_. I already have an abundance of Lattermas wishes.”

Arya laughed. “Well, then,” she said, “Prepare some wishes for Spring.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for tagging along on this very weird journey. I got the idea in December; now it's April, and things have gone so pear-shaped ever since, but I really did want to finish this story. And now I have! The idea of the Lattermas festival rather fell by the wayside, but the fluff lives on. 
> 
> I think that everyone lives happily ever after, but you don't have to take my word for it-- if anyone else wants to write stuff set in this AU, please feel free! Just send me a link to the results. It's an AU for silliness and good feelings.
> 
> Thank you for reading-- if you leave a review and recommend to friends, I will be most grateful.


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